Conditions were perfect. They were high above the tree line and the air had a whistling purity to it. There was very little wind even at this altitude and under the fast-clearing skies, shadows were hard-edged and dark, every contour of the snow visible.

They had been skiing for almost an hour when they stopped at the edge of a snowfield that dropped sharply between two pistes. It was the size of a couple of football pitches and had not a single track upon the pillowy snow. They all shared a conspiring look. First tracks were every skier’s dream.

‘We’d better go one at a time,’ Johnny said sensibly as they scanned it for rocks or sudden drops.

‘Yes, Dad,’ Clover said, getting into a tuck and laughing and shrieking as she zipped down the face. At first, the momentum and speed meant she flew across the surface, but as the gradient lessened and she naturally slowed down, the fluffy powder snow began to gather on her skis, slowing her further until eventually, wobbling wildly . . .

‘Whooooooooaaa!’ She went down face-first, much to the others’ hilarity.

Lying on her tummy, she had to lift her head to call out to them. ‘I’m stuck!’ she cried, howling with laughter and unable to move. The tips of her skis had been pushed well below the powder surface but her slow stop meant the bindings hadn’t released, keeping the skis on. The angle she was lying at meant it was difficult to reach back and exert the force needed to release the bindings herself. ‘I’m properly stuck!’

‘Serves you bloody well right!’ Johnny hollered over. ‘I got that on my Go-Pro, by the way!’

Clover groaned at the thought of it ending up on Matty’s grid later. She could hear her friends laughing, still standing at the drop-in point by the side of the piste as, with a lot of tugging and grunting and a strong gratitude for those hours spent doing hamstring curls in the gym, she somehow lifted her legs enough to free the tips. Through an ungainly scrabble to keep them clear of the snow, much like a beetle trying to get off its back, she tried to get onto hers. All while laughing uncontrollably. She was in god knew how many metres of powder snow and every time she tried to push against the surface to help herself move, she plunged up to her armpit, face-first again. She couldn’t take her skis off and stand, much less walk out, when she didn’t know the depth. She was either going to have to slide out of here on her stomach till she got to the next piste – not a good look – or get onto her back and get up on her skis again.